I shift my gaze ahead again, set on saying whatever it takes to persuade her that she can do this. That we canbothdo this.
My future literally depends on it.
“Relax, Dornan,” I croon, my tone easy and—to my satisfaction—convincingly reassuring. “Today, we’re just going to lay down those ground rules you’re so fond of.”
She huffs, and I turn my head toward her again just in time to catch her rolling those lovely green eyes.
It seems the small trace of humor I felt between us earlier has evaporated, like a drop of water on scorching hot pavement. I can practically hear the sizzle as it dries up.
“Out of curiosity,” I begin with a casual wave of my hand, “are you always a ragey ball of sunshine, or did you just wake up today wearing your cranky pants?”
“Well, I’ve woken up in a nightmare,” Blondie states matter-of-factly. “You can’t blame me for not being happy about it.”
I take a moment to mull over her words, but though I try to see this from her perspective, it doesn’t change what needs to happen. While I can’t begrudge her the hard feelings she’s holding on to when it comes to me, the fact remains that this arrangement will never succeed if she can’t find a way to put our past behind her.
“You know, you’ll have to work on transforming all that disdain you feel for me into affection, otherwise no one will ever believe we’re an item.”
She slaps on a broad smile and bats her eyes, her lashes so long and dark they fan across her cheeks when she blinks. “Better?”
I peek at her for a second, then look back at the road. “Hardly. Also, I should warn you, my parents arenotfans of sarcasm. They have zero sense of humor whatsoever—trust me, I would know. They’ll see through…whateverthatis.”
“My…face?” she asks, confused.
I shake my head. “Your smile. It’s fake as shit, and they’ll know it.”
Sinking low in her seat, she taps her thumbnail to her bottom lip in contemplation. “Okay, so then how am I supposed to convince a couple of human lie detectors we’re dating?”
“Well, like all boring old people, they’ll see what they want to see, and what theywantis to see me settled and serious about my future,” I explain. “Youjust need to relax and not think too much about it. Act natural, you know? Think of how you acted with the last boyfriend you had.” A beat passes as something occurs to me. “Youhavehad a boyfriend before, right?”
I can feel her stony glare on the side of my face. “Yes, I’ve had a boyfriend. Have you?”
“You know, that is the second time someone has asked me that this week,” I muse, recalling my conversation with my abuela on Sunday. “Anyway”—better move on before Blondie gets the wrong idea about why I don’t want a girlfriend—“just think of the money, Dornan, and I’m sure you’ll be channeling Meryl Streep in no time.”
Blondie pushes out a strained breath, then taps the button on her door, rolling the window down a few inches. The air outside funnels through the car, whipping her curls into a violent frenzy.“Well, if I’m going to sell it, don’t you think I need to know where we’re going?” she presses, her voice raised over the wind. She lifts her chin, and that movement, though slight, distracts my attention from the road. I only glance at her for a moment, but it’s long enough for me to realize that, as smokin’ hot as she looked when I woke up to find her in my bed last week, I think I prefer her like this: with her natural curls on display, no makeup, those obnoxiously large glasses sliding down her nose, and not a single fuck to give.
I gotta admit, it’s kind of working for me. If anything, she’s even sexier now.
That thought settles in my stomach like curdled milk, and I grimace, yanking my eyes away. I don’t know where that came from (or the sudden boner I’m really hoping she won’t notice), but I blame the perfume, or the female pheromones, or whatever that smell is the wind is blasting in my face. It’s subtle, so much so I didn’t detect it before, but now that I do, I can’t ignore that Blondie smells great, like citrus and vanilla. I’m finding it hard to think clearly with that dizzying scent suddenly wafting around me. Or at least, Damian Jr. is. And we both need clear heads for this.
Shifting a little to ease the pinch of my jeans against my straining cock, I jam my finger down on the master control on my door until her window is all the way up. Then, for good measure, I crank the air conditioning to flood the car with the faintly metallic—and far less sexy—aroma of the cooling coils.
Blondie’s blistering gaze finds my face yet again.
“Fine,” I say quickly to distract her from the bulge in my pants, locking the window so she can’t roll it down again. Or fling herself out of it. “But just know, you’re in a moving vehicle, so there’s no backing out now.”
“Oh, god,” she mutters, apprehensive.
“We’re going shopping!” I exclaim, like a show host who just told the contestant they’ve won a washing machine or a lifetime supply of socks.
“Shopping,” she repeats, as if it’s the first time she’s ever heard the word. I’m starting to think Blondie might actually be a robot.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but shopping for what?” she asks, then holds up a hand. “On second thought, don’t tell me. Just let me out at the next intersection.”
“A new wardrobe,” I answer before cautiously adding, “For you, obviously. I dress impeccably.”
The atmosphere instantly darkens, and I pray that Blondie cares about her own life too much to strangle me and risk me crashing the car with us in it. When I will myself to cast another glance in her direction, I’m unsurprised to find that her expression is mutinous.
